Page 48 of The Thief
The service moves through readings, prayers, hymns sung by voices that aren't used to church music. I recognize some of the songs from my childhood, back when my mother still believed in God and salvation. Before cancer took her, before my father decided alcohol was more important than his son.
Different life, different choices. But grief feels the same everywhere.
"Would anyone like to share a memory of Jerry?"
The invitation hangs in the air for a moment. Then Maverick stands and walks to the front of the church with steady steps. His voice carries when he speaks, clear and strong.
"Jer used to say that a man's true worth isn't measured by what he takes, but by what he gives. He gave us purpose, guidance, a place to belong when the world had written us off."
Pause. Maverick's looking directly at us, his chosen family, the men Jer shaped into something better than what we were.
"He taught us that loyalty isn't just about blind obedience; it's about choosing your family and standing by them no matter what. He taught us that honor matters, even in a dishonorable world."
Another pause. The church is completely silent now, even the crying baby quieted.
"Jer saved all our lives, in different ways. He saw potential where others saw problems. He built something that will outlast all of us."
Maverick's voice breaks slightly on the last words, the only crack in his composure. He returns to the pew without meeting anyone's eyes.
Stephen goes next, talking about Jer's wisdom, his patience, his ability to see three moves ahead in any situation. Emmanuel follows, sharing a story about the time Jer talked him out of a revenge killing that would have destroyed them all.
I should stand. I should say something about the man who saved me, who taught me everything that matters. But the words won't come. How do you summarize twenty years of guidance, protection, and love that never had to be spoken because it was demonstrated every day?
So I stay seated, and let others carry the burden of public grief while I hold my pain close and private.
The service continues, more prayers, more hymns, final blessings from a priest who's probably absolved more sins than any man should have to carry. Then it's over, and we're filing out into Dublin sunshine that feels too bright for the occasion.
The procession to the cemetery takes forty minutes, a convoy of expensive cars moving slowly through streets lined with people who stop to watch. Some of them probably know who Jer was, what he represented. Others just see a funeral and feel the automatic respect death commands.
At the graveside, under a grey sky that threatens rain, we gather for the final goodbye. The hole in the ground looks impossibly small for a man who filled so much space in our lives. The mahogany casket gleams in the filtered sunlight, brass handles polished to mirror brightness.
Father McKenna says more words about dust and resurrection while we stand in loose formation around the grave. The Houlihan men on one side, the Gallaghers on the other, allied crews filling in the gaps. A show of unity that sends a message to anyone watching: we're still here, still strong, and still dangerous.
But we're also diminished. Anyone with eyes can see it. We're missing our center, our guiding star, the man who held us all together through will and wisdom and sheer force of personality.
The casket descends into the earth with mechanical precision. Each of us throws a handful of dirt, the sound of soil hitting wood final and absolute. There’s no coming back from this. No last-minute reprieve or miracle salvation.
Jer's gone.
People begin to drift away, offering condolences and promises of support that may or may not be sincere. The Gallaghers gather around Henry, protective and alert. The Fury Vipers and Devils Falcons form their own groups, leather and denim standing out among the formal funeral attire.
I stay by the graveside longer than I should, watching the grounds crew finish their work. Someone has to witness this final indignity, the reduction of a great man to a rectangle of disturbed earth and a marble headstone.
The weight of everything settles on my shoulders; the loss, the responsibility, the knowledge that Jer's legacy now rests with men like me. Men he trained, shaped, and trusted to carry on what he built.
"Ready?" Stephen says from behind me, gentle but firm.
I turn to find my brothers waiting: Maverick, Emmanuel, Stephen. The core of what we are, what we'll become. United in grief, bound by loyalty, determined to honor the man who made us family.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm ready."
We walk back to the cars together, leaving Jer to his rest.
The work continues. The code endures. The family we've built will survive this loss because that's what Jer taught us; how to carry on when carrying on seems impossible.
But tonight, when the formal grieving is done and the public faces are put away, I'll pour a drink and remember the man who saved my life. I'll honor his memory by being worthy of the investment he made in me.
And tomorrow, I'll start the business of making sure his killers pay for what they've taken from us.
